Broken shards
by TiTivillus
Summary: John had never been particularly easy on the boys, but things were worse around this time of the year. Hurt!Sam, Protective!Dean, Guilty!John
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** Broken shards

**Summary:** _John had never been particularly easy on the boys, but things were worse around this time of the year. Hurt!Sam, Protective!Dean, Guilty!John_

**Warning:** Rated-K for swearing.

**Author's Notes: **No Beta, mistakes are bound to happen xD This will be a two-shot but I might change it back into a one-shot once the story is complete ;)

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><p><strong>Broken shards<strong>  
><strong>Part 1<strong>

It was a day like any other.

Except that it was not.

John woke up on impulse, one hand wrapped around the handle of his old combat knife, the other reaching blindly for the alarm clock on the night stand before it even had the chance to go off.

It was 5:35.

The flashing numbers on the screen were bright enough to send a jolt of pain through his pounding head- courtesy of the bottle of Jack he had drowned the night before.

He sat up carefully- experience had taught him that moving around too much would only intensify the throbbing in his head - and risked a furtive glance towards his sons' bed.

They were both still asleep, shoulders touching, Sam's arm slung randomly across his brother's middle; their legs all tangled up.

On any other day the sight would have brought a smile to John's face, but today it did nothing to elevate the sinking feeling of despair in his gut. In fact, he even felt a little resentful towards his boys' unnatural closeness; just one more nail to be driven into the proverbial coffin of his parental failure.

Deep down John knew that his sons' bond was forged by his own absence in their lives, by his inability to be an appropriate caretaker and give them the love and attention they deserved.

He also knew that Dean had long ago taken his place as Sammy's parental figure in life, had easily taken over responsibility where John wasn't able to pay his dues and that Sam had already slipped out of his hands in more ways than one- that his youngest no longer respected him,- no longer _needed_ him like he used to when he was younger.

So yeah, John was aware of the irreversible damage he had caused.

But truth be told, the days where he actually took the time to think about all the things that went wrong in their family, came few and far between.

So for him to jus sit there and watch his boys, - to really look at them and take in all the distinctive features of their relaxed faces, to watch how they sought each other out, even on a purely subconscious level, almost caused John physical pain.

Hell, it almost killed him.

But he did it anyways, took in the small mole above Sam's mouth, the slight curl of Dean's lips, the shaggy mop of Sammy's never-to-be-tamed hair and all the other things that reminded him so much of Mary, that it pushed his grief to a whole new level.

God, it hurt so much to look at them and see how much of her beauty, how much of her spirit they had inherited without even knowing it.

More than once in the past, John had ruffled his sons' hair only to withdraw his fingers the next second, when the silk strands gliding against his palm had been a painful reminder of what Mary's blond locks used to feel like.

Hell, most of the time John couldn't even bear to meet Sam's eyes because they were always brimming with emotion, just like his Mary's used to be when she was still alive.

Dean's cocky smirk? All her. Just like his well-hidden gentle side, his selflessness and his ability to forgive easily- a trait that John himself had never possessed.

His sons were so much like their mother that John sometimes had a hard time spending time with them outside of hunting jobs- because it was simply too painful to look at them and see the living reminder of what he had lost.

So waking up to find them tangled up and asleep, vulnerable and young, made John ache with a familiar pain that had nothing to do with his boys themselves and EVERYTHING with the loss of his beloved wife, who had died 14 years ago.

To the day.

With a heavy sigh John scuffled over to the old coffee machine in the motel room kitchen and hesitated- fingers hovering over the power switch, before he thought better of it and turned to one of the wooden cabinets instead.

He shot a fleeting glance over his shoulder, to check if the boys were still asleep before pulling an unopened bottle of Whiskey from the cupboard and cracking the foil cap open.

_'And now what? What are you going to do with that?' _The voice of reason raged silently in his head as he poured himself a glass with shaky fingers.  
><em>'Drink yourself to death? Become an alcoholic? Do you really think this will make things easier?'<em>

"Yeah..." John murmured quietly to himself. "It always does."

Putting a lid on the voice was easy, something he had done countless times before.

Raising the glass of whiskey to his chapped lips was even easier.

A motion perfected by years of grief and sorrow.

But John made the mistake of glancing down into the glass, breath catching in his throat when he saw Mary's features in the twirls of amber liquid and he might have put it down- almost certainly would have done so, if it wasn't for the gaping hole in his chest where his heart once used to be.

There was a strangled noise in the back of John's throat and his mind started racing, going through all the memories that were carefully hidden away in the darkest corners of his head, picture after picture digged up and revealed until they were everywhere, Mary's laughter merging with her gurgled screams of pain, her blond her going up in scathing flames, face twisted in a tormented grimace that would forever haunt him in his dreams.

The alcohol stung his nose and burned down his throat in an all too familiar way. John closed his eyes, fingers tightening on the glass as he tried to erase the cruel assault of images from his mind.

It was harder to keep his emotions in check on a day like this. He was angrier, more desperate and the urge to kill something- to redeem himself and get revenge for what had been done to his wife- to his _family_- was overwhelming.

His body was thrumming with the need to release his pent-up energy and John knew if he didn't leave the motel room soon and spend the day somewhere else, chances were high that his sons would end up taking the brunt of his anger.

He had never been particularly easy on the boys, but things were worse around this time of the year. He was harder on them, dealing out punishments and spitting harsh words that he would undoubtedly regret once his mind was no longer clouded by alcohol and unreasonable bitterness.

So when he woke them up half an hour and three whiskey-shots later for their daily morning jog and Sam started his usual protesting, it took about all of John's constraint to stay calm.

Idly he wondered if Sam was even aware of the date- if his youngest even knew the dangerous ground he treaded on, because he sure as hell showed no sign of grief in remembrance of his own mother's death.

"But dad-" the fourteen-year-old started to protest, running a tired hand over his sleepy face. Dean was already half dressed and headed for the bathroom while his younger brother still tried to worm his way around training.

And while there was nothing unordinary with the way Dean followed his orders, there was no way John could have missed the miserable expression on his oldest's face as he passed him by.

Dean knew what day it was. He always did. And even it was childish and unfair, John couldn't help but think that Dean was the only one to truly understand his grief, while Sam never really grasped the full extent of Mary's loss.

And how could he?

After all, Sammy had been a baby when his mother died, barely old enough to be aware of his surroundings.

He had no memories connected to his deceased mother, didn't even know what her voice sounded like whenever she had sung him a lullaby, or how the soft skin around her eyes had crinkled with joy every time she held little Sammy in her arms.

But John remembered. And Dean did- even if he had still been so young himself at that time.

"Sam." John glowered warningly. "If you don't gear up and get out there in the next two minutes, you'll do 8 miles instead of 4. Are we clear?"

For a second, it looked like Sam was gonna say something else, hazel eyes flashing with suicidal stubbornness as John clenched his hands to fists, but that was when Dean rushed back into the room. "C'mon squirt. I'm even gonna give you a head start, so that you have a small chance of beating me."

His oldest's attempt to get his little brother moving was less heartfelt than usual, but it got the job done just the same; when Sam sat up in bed albeit grudgingly to dress himself and get ready.

Somewhere along the road his sons had made a habit out of turning all of their training sessions into games and contests to make them more enjoyable.

At first John hadn't really liked the idea, too afraid that the banter would distract them too much from the actual task at hand, but with time John had come to understand that the games were Dean's subtle tactic of getting Sam back on program whenever he started to revolt against their hunting life yet again.

The 4 mile morning run turned into a chase of who could run faster, the martial arts training was spiced up by inventing a point system much similar to the one applied in a box ring and gun training became a contest of who could hit the bull's-eye more precisely and who could take a gun apart and put it back together in the shortest amount of time...

Needless to say the simple changes had been incredibly effective and John had found himself enjoying their playfulness and the ease with which his eldest manipulated Sam into training.

Dean just knew all the right buttons to push, knew exactly what made the kid tick and how to get through to his brother.

It was incredible how well Dean could read Sam, while John himself was helplessly incompetent at understanding his youngest.

_'You brought this on yourself' _the voice inside of him piped up once more and John clenched his jaw, fighting back the urge to get himself another glass of Whiskey._ 'If you'd been there for these boys like you were supposed to, they wouldn't depend on each other so much. They would come to you for advice, look at you for direction instead of turning towards each other.'_

John squelched the irrational thought and turned to the kitchen in search of the opened bottle of Whiskey. He needed a drink.

He let out a relieved breath upon finding his glass half-full, but just as he was to take a sip from it, a hand wrapped around his wrist, holding him in place.

John looked up to meet a pair of startling green eyes.

Dean.

"It's just after 6 in the morning, dad." his tone was gentle when he talked, no accusation there, just... pleading. "Why don't you tone it down a little, huh?"

"I don't need you to patronize me, Dean." John snarled, ripping his own hand free from Dean's grasp before gulping the rest of the Whiskey down in one go.

He could feel Dean's sad eyes burn into him as he swallowed, but that didn't stop him from doing it. "I can read the fucking time and I can drink whenever the mood strikes me. Now get the hell out of here and start running, boy."

Sam appeared next to Dean, watching his father with wide and unblinking eyes. There was no doubt in John's mind that Sam had listened in on their conversation.

He was dressed in a pair of grey trunks and a battered band T-shirt that had probably belonged to Dean at some point in the past and the kid was so damn scrawny he was practically swimming in his clothes.

After a second of tense silence between them, Dean finally relented with a heavy sigh. "Just... don't overdo it, okay? I know it's hard, but-"

"But, what?"

Dean flinched a little at the tone of his voice and John felt a grim satisfaction at the flicker of worry and fear in his boy's eyes. "Nothing, Sir... we'll be back in an hour."

"Make it 40 minutes."

A mile in 10 minutes was what they were trained to accomplish in the Marines. It was managable but exhausting. And considering that the boys had to go to school later on today, John knew he shouldn't be pushing them too hard. But then again, school wasn't gonna save his boys' life on a hunt, running fast on the other hand...

Just as the two of them turned to leave, Dean's hand gently cupping Sam's neck as he led the kid forward, his oldest threw John another lingering gaze from the doorway. "Just in case you won't be here when we get home... Fuller called me in for a job, I'll head over to the garage right after school and I don't know how long it will take."

John merely nodded his head, knowing he would probably be long gone by that time, drowning his sorrow in alcohol in some no-name bar far away from his boys.

He didn't really care what his eldest was up to; didn't even want to think about whether Dean was really working or just using that excuse to distract himself from his own grief. "What about Sam?"

"It's alright, I'm gonna take the bus home" Sam answered for himself, never really having liked if other people spoke for him. Then much quieter, he added "It's not like you could come get me in the condition you're gonna be in."

John smashed the glass back down on the table with more force than necessary. "8 fucking miles, Samuel. You can thank yourself for that and I don't even care if you are late for school. One more word from your mouth and you'll be running 10, got me?"

To be fair, Dean looked more worried by the punishment than Sam, probably suffering vicariously, while Sam just glared at John with enough hate to make him shiver.

The little smartass was two seconds away from mouthing off at him, probably would have said something along the lines of _'How am I supposed to answer you if you don't want to hear another word from my mouth', _but before it could come to that, Dean ushered him out of the door with a gentle nod of his head.

"C'mon, let's get going."

**TBC...**

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><p><em>So I watched the clip for the upcoming episode and got inspired for another pre-series fic about the aniversary of Mary's death. Let's just say things between John and Sam get a little out of hand in the next chapter. Who's up for more? :D Let me know if you liked it so far and want me to continue ;) Your support is very much appreciated!<em>**  
><strong>


	2. Chapter 2

**Broken Shards **  
><strong>Part 2<strong>

John should have known that things between him and Sam would escalate without Dean to play peacemaker between them.

He should have damn' well known it would come to this, and left when he still had the chance to do so.

But John had gotten a call from a hunting buddy a few hours ago and then lost track of time while doing research.

And now it was too late.

"Where the hell have you been?" he bellowed angrily as soon as the door fell into lock behind Sam. It was just after 6 in the evening and John was still sober enough to remember that his son should have been back 2 hours ago.

Sam's eyes widened in shock, like a deer caught in headlights and John was sure his youngest hadn't expected him to be in the motel room when he got home.

"I...I took the bus, just like I told you" his youngest explained weakly, pulling his backpack from his shoulders.

John snorted.

Sam wasn't half as good at lying as Dean was, the boy just didn't have it in him- didn't have the guts to stare into somebody's eyes and fabricate a story out of nothing.

_'He will never be a hunter, if he can't pull these little things off' _the annoying voice in his head supplied unhelpfully, adding to the pile of doubts and concerns John already harbored about his youngest.

"What are you doing here anyways?" Sam asked after he had visibly regained some of his composure and started pulling off his sneakers. "Shouldn't you be off on a bender or something?"

"Watch you goddamned mouth" John shot back, getting up from his seat at the kitchen table, where he had been cleaning weapons for the 30 minutes. "You don't use that tone when you talk to me, understood?"

Sam held his gaze defiantly for a second, before dropping his head and shoulders in a slightly subordinate posture.

He didn't apologize however and John locked his jaw, anger burning low in his gut at his son's audacity.

Sam was about to turn away from him without another word, when John stormed over and grabbed him by the arm, pulling him close.

"Not so fast." John growled, fingers tightening around Sam's wrist until he could see a flicker of pain in the boy's confused eyes. "Dad, wha-"

"Where have you been the past couple of hours?"

"You are hurting me" Sam gave back in a shaky voice, desperately trying to pull his arm from his father's tight grasp.

John wasn't in the mood for his son's whining. "Answer the question."

"I told you" Sam shot back, voice rising in desperation. "I missed the bus and had to walk home so it took me long- ahh!"

It was only when Sam cried out in pain, that John suddenly realized he had still been applying more pressure to his son's wrist, had squeezed it hard enough to grind bones and sinews together. Sam's face was torn into a pained grimace and his hazel eyes were ablaze with disbelief and shock when John finally let go.

_'He had it coming' _John rationalized in his mind, nostrils flaring in anger.

There was no point in feeling guilty. The boy needed to be taught a lesson. This teenage rebellion needed to stop.

Fuming quietly, John used his son's momentary distraction to his advantage and stalked over to where the teenager had dropped his backpack earlier.

"Dad, don't! What are you doing?" Sam protested, cradling his hand to his chest as he followed John to the other end of the room.

But John was faster.

He knelt down, ripping the backpack open before Sam had a chance to do anything about it and what he found inside managed to fuel the anger inside of him even more.

"Dad, it's not like you think-"

John ignored his son's pleading and pulled a sweat soaked sports jersey from the backpack.

His fingers trembled, itching for another glass of alcohol, anything to drown out the all-consuming rage that threatened to take hold of his body.

"What is this?" John asked in a dangerously low tone, turning around to shoot Sam his darkest glare.

Sam looked down at the dirty floor boards, lips trembling weakly. "A soccer tricot..."

"And why- pray tell- is there a soccer tricot in your backpack?"

Sam jerked back from the words, glancing up with fearful eyes from behind chocolate-brown bangs.

"Answer me!"

His voice sounded foreign to his own ears, garbled and way too loud.

But he didn't care.

All he could think about- all he could see in his mind, was his teenage son, playing soccer at school on the day of his own mother's death.

As if he couldn't be bothered that Mary had died on the ceiling above his very own crib, trying to protect him.

"It was just for an hour, dad- I swear. There-there were try-outs and coach said I was really good so I thought-"

"You thought some stupid sports team was more important than honoring the memory of your own mother?! Is that it?"

John grasped Sam by the shirt and pulled him close enough to see fear flickering in his eyes.

"Well was it worth it? Did you have fun while me and your brother tried to forget what her pained screams sounded like when she died?!"

"No" Sam choked, eyes brimming with tears. He shook his head in denial, pushing his palms against John's chest in an effort to free himself. "T-that's not fair. I love Mom-"

"_Love her?" _John threw his head back, cruel laughter bubbling up from his throat. "You don't even know her! Your mother gave her life for you and this is how you repay her!"

"That's n-not true- " Sam stammered in response, going limp in John's grasp as if the cruel words had taken his will and power. His bottom lip trembling as he fought to keep his composure, shoulders shaking in his desperate attempt to hold back tears and John didn't even feel a flicker of remorse at the sight of his son's brokenness. "You s-said it wasn't my f-fault that she died..."

John let go of Sam's shirt and looked from the crinkled soccer jersey to his broken, shivering mess of a son.

"Well maybe I was wrong. You might not have killed her, but you are still the reason why she's dead."

His words were carefully chosen to hurt. And they got the job done.

His son's face twisted into a sneer, an ugly, resentful expression that he had never seen on Sam before.

"I hate you!" the teenager hissed, as tears finally broke free from his glistening eyes.

John saw red, the rage that had built up inside him for hours was now finally released, as he drew his hand back to form a fist.

He had never laid hand on either of his sons before, but in the moment Sam's eyes widened at the realization of what John was about to do, it was already too late.

His knuckles smashed into the boy's chin with a satisfying crunch and it was only when Sam's head was harshly knocked back, connecting with the motel room wall behind him, that John finally managed to snap out of his trance-like fury.

With a mixture of shock and horror he watched as his youngest crumbled to the floor, hands automatically drawn up to protect his head from further blows.

For a long moment, John couldn't do anything but stare at the crying, trembling teenager on the dirty floor, before he was finally able to move again.

This was his son on the floor. His youngest. Mary's baby boy.

And John had done this to him.

_'Shit'_

"Sam...? Damnit' son, I-I didn't mean to-"

His miserable excuse of an apology was cut short by Sam's quiet sobbing.

God... he couldn't believe he had done this!

Couldn't believe he had reduces his strong, proud son to this shivering, terrified mess on the ground.

_'What would Mary say if she could see you now?'_

John felt sick to his stomach.

"Sammy?"

Feeling incredibly sober all of a sudden, John crouched down before his son's curled up body and tried to assess the damage- hand reaching out for Sam's face, but the boy flinched back from the touch.

Before he could say or do anything else, the door to the motel room was pushed open and John squeezed his eyes shut in preparation for what was to come.

His oldest really couldn't have picked a worse time to come home...

There was a second of shocked silence before Dean's voice boomed through the air.

"What the hell is going on in here?!"

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><p><em>So here we go, thank you all so much for reading! ;) I originally wanted to end the story at two chapters, but now we are missing Dean's reaction, aren't we? So who is up for more? Protective Dean to the rescue, right? Let me know what you thought!<em>


	3. Chapter 3

**Broken shards**  
><strong>Part 3<strong>

John stood motionless, while his heart threatened to beat right out of his chest.

Sammy had buried his face in his hands- didn't even look up at the sound of his brother's voice and if John didn't know already, this would have been the final affirmation of how distraught and _hurt_ his youngest was.

John couldn't bring himself to turn around, didn't want to know what Dean's expression looked like right now; didn't want to see the disappointment on his eldest's face.

The _betrayal_ that would no doubt be etched into Dean's features.

Because hadn't John always told Dean to take care of Sammy? Hadn't he drilled it into him at an early age?

_'Watch your brother, Dean. Don't let anything happen to him. Take care of him. Protect him.'_

And now John had gone against all of it- had dared to hurt Sam with his own two hands.

John swallowed convulsively, wishing to go back in time and undo the damage he had caused.

"Oh god..." Dean murmured as he crept closer from behind, slowly, carefully- almost as if he was afraid of approaching them.

"Sammy...? Are you-"

Then realization must have hit him, because the next thing John knew, was Dean shoving him roughly aside on his way to his weeping brother.

"Jesus" Dean choked out as he crouched down before Sam, reaching out to assess the damage that had been done to the kid. John took a step back, physically and mentally distancing himself from the scene that played out in front of him. He desperately wished he was merely a silent spectator, instead of an active role in this whole fiasco.

Dean tried to get a look at Sam's face, but the kid wouldn't let him see, shied away from his touch as if Dean had been the one to hurt him instead of John.

"No- d-don't-", Sam brokenly uttered, blindly shoving at Dean's hands to fight him off.

There was a moment of stunned silence. Because never before in all of Sammy's life had he pushed Dean away or denied him any sort of brotherly contact.  
>Sure, there were times when they bickered and fought, but John had always admired the fact that his boys never held a real grudge against each other, never really went beyond playful banter when they knocked heads.<p>

So this was new. And John couldn't help to notice the flash of hurt on his oldest's face at Sam's broken dismissal.

But the hurt quickly morphed into accusation and anger, when Dean turned around to shoot John a deadly glare. "What did you do?"

"Dean..." John sighed, stepping forward in an attempt to reach out for his eldest- to _explain_, even if didn't know where to start. Because deep down he knew he had no right to even ask for forgiveness. There was no excuse for what he had done. None.

"I didn't mean to hurt him-"

Dean's eyes narrowed dangerously. "What. did. you. do?", he spoke quietly, each word hacked off as if that would somehow make him understand the seriousness of the situation- as if it would make the answer easier.

Well it didn't.

"I- fuck, Dean- I lost my temper" John closed his eyes, barely able to get the confession out between clenched teeth. "H-he was late from school-"

_"Late from school?" _Dean repeated, getting up so quick, John's head started spinning.

"And what? You thought that gave you the fucking right to touch him?!"

John should have expected his son's outburst. You see, Dean was a good kid. Maybe a bit rash at times, but well-mannered and loyal to a default. He was quick to follow John's lead and never gave John any trouble when it came to hunting.

But there was one thing that would crack through Dean's cool exterior quicker than a sledge-hammer, and that was _Sammy_. If the kid was hurt, Dean through caution and rationality to the wind and let his big-brother-instincts take over. And usually, that wasn't pretty. John had seen it multiple times, but he had never been the one on the receiving end of his son's protectiveness before.

Not until now, that was.

But John had a reason to do what he'd done! Dean was too lenient with Sam. His oldest's judgement was clouded by his own love for the kid and as a result he often let Sam get away with his tamper-tantrums.

The boy needed to be taught some respect, right?

Otherwise he would only end up getting them all killed.

Just like he had caused his own mother's death.

_'Did you really just think that?! What is wrong with you?' _John clenched the base of his nose, squeezing his eyes shut against the onslaught of thoughts and emotions warring in his mind and heart.

How could he blame his own son for what had happened to Mary? Sam had only been 2 months old for Christ's sake. He was just a little baby.

_'But you can't deny that there's something inexplicably dark about him. And Mary died in his nursery... That couldn't be a coincidence, right?'_

John hated himself for it, but there was just something about Sam that scared him. Because there was more to his boy's character than the smart and sweet kid he seemed to be on the outside. Sometimes John saw a dark abyss in the depths of his son's eyes, huge and gaping, like a black hole waiting to annihilate the world. And it made him feel like he didn't know Sam at all- like there was a secret, dark side to the boy that he himself held no control over.

But Dean didn't see the same darkness, didn't think that Sam possessed a single dark bone in his body.

So John had never voiced his doubts, had alway, _always _made sure to keep these fears to himself, because no matter what was wrong with his youngest, if there was one thing John knew for sure, then it was that his sons' bond -that their love for each other- could overcome anything.

"Dean..." John sighed, ringing for words, unsure of how to continue when Sam's quiet whimpering saved him the trouble of an explanation.

Instinctively, Dean turned around at the sound of distress and reverted his attention back to Sam, who had drawn his knees up to his chest protectively and was whipping back and forth on the ground.

"Hey..." Dean said softly, dropping to his knees in front of his brother.

John's eyes stung, knowing that Sam was the only one who possessed the power to bring out Dean's tender side. And that Dean was the only one to get through to his distraught brother in the state he was currently in.

"Why don't you lower your hands, so I can take a look at your face, huh?"

Sam shook his head in denial and Dean sighed.

"Come on, Sammy. It's just me, I'm not gonna hurt you..."

John exhaled. The words slicing deep into his heart.

The mere fact that Dean had to say these words- that his eldest felt the urge to clarify that _he_ wouldn't hurt Sam, even when John himself had done exactly that.

But the words seemed to work, because the next second Sam lowered his shaking hands, revealing his tear and snot- covered face and the angry red patch of swollen skin forming where John had landed his punch earlier.

Oh god...

Seeing the evidence of what he had done was so much harder than he imagined. And coupled with the stark fear reflecting from Sam's teary eyes, guilt crushed over John like a tidal wave.

Without conscious thought, John stepped forward- the instinct to help his hurting, injured son overcoming every rational thought, until he was harshly stopped by his eldest.

"Stop!" Dean glowered at him, palm raised threateningly to halt John in his tracks. "You don't go anywhere near him. Not after this."

The words left no room for discussion.

John froze, biting his lower lip as his anger threatened to make a reappearance.

_'I'm their father! I can goddamn' well do whatever I want' _he raged inside.

But there was something dark and threatening in Dean's eyes- that prevented him from saying the words out loud.

So he just stood there instead, keeping his mouth shut, while Dean tended to his little brother, trying to heal the wounds John had caused.

"Shit..." Dean breathed, fingers trembling when they reached out for Sam's face.

Tenderly, his eldest prodded at the area around Sam's chin, apologizing for every pained flinch or whimper he caused. "You hurt anywhere else, buddy?" he finally asked after a brief assessment.

Sam hesitated.

"What is it, Sammy? Tell me..."

Biting his lip, Sam dropped his gaze to the arm he was still cradling to his chest and John could have smacked himself.

Damnit'

He had completely forgotten about that arm. He couldn't have hurt Sam this badly, right? He barely even squeezed it!

"Your wrist?" Dean gently implored, taking Sammy's limp hand in his own to examine it.

"Oh come on, Sam!" John snorted, no longer able to keep his thoughts to himself. "I didn't even grab you that hard."

Sam's lips started trembling as he quickly withdrew his hand from Dean's gentle touch, new tears spilling from his frightened eyes. "I-I'm sorry... it's n-nothing-"

"It's NOT nothing, Sam" Dean shot back and that was when he got up and turned around to face John once more. "What the HELL is wrong with you? You think you have any right to talk to him- to even look at him after what you did?!"

His son was completely furious and frankly, John had never seen him like this before. Where Dean had shown gentleness only seconds before, he was a seething bundle of energy now.

His green eyes flashing with barely contained betrayal as he stared John down, chest rising and falling in rapid succession.

"You weren't here, Dean. You don't understand..."

"Damn' right I don't understand! Sam's just a kid, dad! So what if he gets home late from school-"

"It's not only that!" John was quick to explain, squaring his shoulders as his own anger flared in his chest. "He went to a fucking _soccer tournament_, Dean! On the anniversary of your mother's death."

Dean sucked in a breath, eyes widening ever so slightly.

"So that's what this is about?" he said quietly. "The try-outs?"

John's fingers twitched at his sides. "You knew he was going, didn't you?"

He should have known that Dean wouldn't have the guts to deny Sam any of his wishes- not even if they were as silly as becoming a new member in the sports team of his high school.

Dean shook his head in undisguised contempt. "He's a teenager dad, he's just trying to fit in and have some fun..."

"_Fun?! _And you think _fun_ is more important than honoring the anniversary of his mother's death?! As far as I can see, _you_ weren't off having fun today. And _I_ sure as hell wasn't having fun either."

There was a second of silence, Dean's mouth slightly agape as he stared at him, almost as if he was seeing John for the very first time.

"Do you ever stop to listen to yourself, dad?" Dean inquired sadly, driving a hand through his spikey hair as he met John's eyes. "When was the last time, any of us were enjoying themselves? This isn't just about mom. I mean- look at this-" he turned around, gesturing towards the shady motel-room they were currently in. "Do you really think this is the life Mom would have wanted for us?"

John gulped, eyes straying from his son's imploring eyes as another wave of guilt surged through him.

Because Dean was right, Mary would kill him if she could see them right now. She would have wanted her boys to be happy, to have a normal life with loving parents, a house, a dog- the whole nine yards of 'normal'. But that picture-perfect version of their lives had burned to ashes along with Mary herself.

John opened his mouth- ready to interject, but Dean didn't let him.

"Look dad, I'm not trying to throw with stones here- I know you've always tried your best in raising us. But this?" he waved as Sam who was still watching the whole exchange from his place on the ground. "This isn't acceptable. This is _abuse. _And you just- you just CAN'T do this, alright? Not to Sammy. Not for any reason. Not EVER."

John nodded, understanding the subtle threat that went along with Dean's words, knowing that his oldest wouldn't hesitate to pack their suitcases and leave forever, if he thought it would keep Sam save from John's mindless anger.

"I-I just-" John stuttered, trying to look over Dean's shoulder to where his youngest was cowering on the floor. "I didn't mean to hurt him-" he tried to explain but Dean was already shaking his head, turning around to tend to his brother.

"I'm not the one you should apologize to..."

It was the last thing Dean said to him, before John grabbed his keys from the table and turned to leave the room. He was just about to step out into the night, when he saw something out of the corner of his eyes that made him falter.

Sam had thrown his boney arms around Dean's neck and started sobbing into his big brother's neck. His small frame was shaking with hiccups and he sounded so broken- so utterly miserable that John could barely stand to listen to it.

With a sudden clarity, John realized that this was the real damage he'd caused.

These were the emotional scars he would leave behind, the things that hurt worse than any fractured wrist or punch to the face ever could.

"Hey, shhhh..." Dean tried to soothe, gently rubbing his brother's quivering back. "It's over. You're gonna be fine, Sammy."

Sam's response was barely audible over his own ragged breathing.

"I'm s-sor-ry... I-I didn't m-mean to-" his youngest hiccupped, barely coming up for air as he forced himself to speak.

Dean's frowned in confusion. "Shh, stop apologizing. It's not your fault, alright?"

But Sam was inconsolable.

"I-I love M-mom. I r-really d-do..."

John's heart broke into a million pieces.

"Hey, I know that. I know you love her, kiddo. Where is this coming from?"

John wiped a wayward tear from his own face, before grabbing the keys to his truck and stepping out into the night, unable to listen to the rest of the conversation.

_'This is your fault! He will always carry that guilt with him now! Are you really gonna leave him thinking that he's responsible for her death?!'_

Cool air hit him when he stepped outside and before he knew it he was gasping for breath like a drowning man, more tears streaming down his face.

**The END**

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><p><em>Alright guys, sorry for the abrupt ending- I hope it wasn't too melodramatic. Thank you sooo much for all your reviews, follows, favs and for sticking with me 'til the end ! ;D And don't forget to drop a note if you liked my story :) You are the best!<em>

_PS: for all of you who were confused about the second chapter, I accidentally mixed that up with my other story Achilles Last Stand. Sooo sorry for that, guys! It should be fine now. Thanks for telling me! It's definitely time for me to re-organize my doc-manager :PP LOL_


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